Between the Shadow and Me
by ferasha
Summary: When Anders first met Julian Hawke, the boy was nothing but a wide-eyed teen with a crush. Seven years later, Julian became the almighty Champion of Kirkwall – and what did Anders turn into?


**Title: **Between the Shadow and Me

**Rating: **Mild M for language, non-graphic sexuality and mature themes

**Warnings: **Spoilers for the entire game, but I guess that goes without saying. Also, it's pretty dark, just so you know.

**Genre: **Character study, psychology, drama, hints of romance and bucketloads of angst.

**Length: **~11K

**Pairing: **Anders/m!Hawke, with an emphasis on age difference

**Summary: **When Anders first met Julian Hawke, the boy was nothing but a wide-eyed teen with a crush. Seven years later, Julian became the allmighty Champion of Kirkwall – and what did Anders turn into?

**Disclaimer:** Dragon Age isn't mine. If it were, I would have given it more development time.

**Author's Notes: **

Beta'd by the wonderful **tersa**, one of the most active people in the Dragon Age fandom on LJ.

I tried to create a Hawke who'd be as different from the default bearded dude as possible, and the result was this big-eyed freckle-faced boy who didn't look a day older than 19, which is the youngest starting age for Hawke that the game allows. It was really scary how _young _my Hawke looked next to Anders, and it's actually his jailbait appearance, especially in Act I, that inspired me to write this fic.

I altered the timeline a little bit, but mostly concerning some minor details that work better like this in the framework of the story. Also, Sebastian is absent from this fic – there was simply no room for any additional drama, even though a reference to one of his quests is made at some point.

**Between the Shadow and Me**

_It was a mistake._

"Shut up."

_What you did is unforgivable._

"Shut up, I said."

_It was not just._

"I don't see how it concerns you. You're not Justice."

_So you claim._

Anders rubbed the bridge of his nose. How do you get away from a conversation in your own mind? Sometimes, he wished he could simply blow his head up to bloody pieces, if only that would make the blasted creature quiet.

"I'm too tired to argue," he said, more softly than he intended.

For a moment, the spirit was silent, as if it were trying to figure out what to say next. It became quite skilled in the art of banter – the next sentence had to be the punchline, and the words needed to have the appropriate ring to them. Anders knew the steps of that dance all too well.

_It was a mis-cal-cu-la-tion._

The spirit had never learned how to change the tone of its voice, no. That required _emotions_,and feelings made the prude from the Fade feel oh so uncomfortable. Yet something in the way the spirit stressed the last word made Anders flinch. As if the bastard actually tried to mock him – or, even worse, to _gloat. _

Perhaps the spirit did pick up a tad of human pettiness after all.

"Well, you're spot on about that," Anders said hoping that it would end the discussion, and wrapped his arms around his knees more closely. He _did _feel too tired for an argument.

The next couple of minutes went by in blissful silence.

Anders almost believed that the conversation was over, even though it wasn't likely. It was a chatty one, this spirit. It always had been, ever since Vigil's Keep and that tireless debate on the freedom for cats. The more difficult the topic, the happier it was.

_Don't look._

There we go again.

Thankfully, it appeared the spirit wanted to change the subject.

"I'm not looking," Anders lied.

_Yes, you are._

Sometimes, it was so easy to forget that the creature was seeing the world through _his _eyes.

"So what if I am? It is my _right _to look, you know."

_Is it?_

Anders sighed.

"He happens to be my partner. I can look, touch, or _fuck _him as much as I want."

The spirit pretended not to understand.

_Don't look_, it repeated. It sounded almost worried in its monotone.

Maybe the bastard did care, Anders thought for a moment. Maybe it was trying to protect him in its own clumsy, out-of-this-world way.

_It was a mistake, _the spirit insisted. Anders couldn't decide whether it was sadness or triumph seeping from its flat voice. He also wondered what, exactly, the spirit saw as a mistake. His entire life, probably.

"Shut up."

_Then don't look._

It's not that he _wanted _to look. He simply couldn't divert his eyes. Young Julian was too much of a magnificent sight. Like a real hero from tales, indeed, and in person he was even more beautiful, powerful and bolder than Varric could ever describe. He looked like a prayer come true.

He was talking to Orsino and some senior mages Anders did not know, nodding his head wisely, devising strategies, calming the men down, all self-confident and reliable as if he knew exactly what he was doing. He wore what he called his Champion Armor – that odd mixture of scrap metal and blue-dyed fur that looked more like the parade garb of some barbarian chieftain than mage's robes. His face was covered with tattoos, and his blond hair was ruffled and wild. It was deliberate, of course. "You must look the part you play, Anders," Julian had told him once, when he'd caught the boy in front of the mirror painstakingly fixing his hair into that disheveled mess. "A revolutionary must come across as untamed and unbendable, if he wants to be taken seriously." Well, it seemed to work for Julian just fine, as all these poor sods in the Gallows were staring at the boy as if he were the Maker descended to earth. He'd become such a pretty leader, his Julian. So _iconic._

All of a sudden, Anders felt aged, and drained, and painfully aware of the sour stench of his grease-covered coat.

_Don't look, I said. Looking will only make it worse._

Aveline and Varric were there, of course – even though they didn't appear to be pleased with the turn of events, the woman had a most stubborn sense of loyalty, and the dwarf wouldn't miss a plot twist for anything in the world. It didn't surprise him that the Dalish witch remained as well – with her tribe dead, it wasn't as if the girl had somewhere else to go. Isabela and the Tevinter elf were a different story, though. It was beyond Anders how Julian managed to keep these two by his side – the pirate took pride in her selfishness and lack of interest in any political beliefs, and the elf swore that he would rather swallow his own sword than defend a stronghold full of mages. Yet here they were, both of them, happy to receive orders and lay down their lives for the Cause.

He had a talent to make people fall for him, his Julian.

_The others avoid looking you in the eyes. They resent you for what you did._

Anders spat.

"I don't care."

_Maybe he does._

"He knows better than that."

_Are you sure?_

Yes, Anders wanted to lie, but he didn't say a word.

Julian was still absorbed in his conversation with Orsino. He smiled and patted the incompetent fool on the back – of all the First Enchanters Anders had ever dealt with, that shady little elf was the greatest idiot by far – probably assuring the man that Everything Will Be All Right. Truth be told, Julian most likely believed it himself. He'd always been an incorrigible optimist. Sometimes, Anders worried about him – it wasn't good for the man who aspired to lead the Revolution to be so trusting, so _playful _when grave matters were concerned.

Well, he'd certainly made sure to teach the boy a lesson.

Ever since they came to the Gallows, Julian hadn't shot a glance in Anders' direction.

_Care to hear what I think? _the spirit cheerfully continued.

"No," Anders said, even though he knew nothing would stop the creature from speaking its mind.

_I think_…

The bastard dragged on its line as if it wanted to raise the tension, as if it had read one too many of Varric's books.

_I think he doesn't lo-_

"Don't you dare!" Anders suddenly raised his voice and jumped, catching the eye of a few nervous apprentices who were sitting nearby. "Don't you _dare _finish that sentence!"

The apprentices gave him a curious look, as if he were a street comedian whose skit ended with an unfunny joke. Then they shook their heads sadly and continued to stare at Julian, their eyes gleaming with adoration. (Anders was well aware of how they spoke about him behind his back. He was the crazy old fart who always talked to himself and believed in every single conspiracy theory he picked up from the paranoid ramblings of drunkards and lunatics. He claimed to be an abomination just to draw attention and harassed everyone with his poorly written manifestos. He was nothing but a filthy refugee from Darktown, and there had to be some twisted secret behind that free clinic of his – maybe he used his patients for some Maker-forsaken experiments, he was certainly insane enough for that. The magic-users in Kirkwall had lived their normal, happy lives before he'dcome to town and started raging around. Why the templars had let him roam the streets freely and ruin the reputation of well-behaved mages was beyond anyone's understanding, but the reason was surely not because he was the Champion's lover. There was no way Hawke would ever sleep with _that._)

"I'm not that old," Anders said in a small voice to no one in particular, and sat back on the ash-covered floor.

_But you are, _the spirit was happy to point out. _You are, in comparison to him._

It was true, all right. The first time Anders had met Julian, the boy was barely out of his teens.

When the Hawke brothers stormed into his clinic all those years ago, all clumsy and lacking in diplomacy, Anders' first thought had been that the elder brother looked nothing like a mage. It wasn't about the way he was dressed, no. His entire posture was odd – his walk was cocky yet graceless, he had the callused hands and the freckled face of a farm boy who'd spent his days working the fields, and he most certainly didn't get such strong shoulders from waving around a staff and reading spell-books. He talked with the rough accent of a Fereldan provincial and tried to camouflage his youth by shooting out inappropriate one-liners he probably thought sarcastic. Varric, his inevitable tag-along even at the time, would always chuckle at those poor attempts at humor, while the other Hawke brother, the same angry young man who was, right now, on the opposite side of the walls ready to attack them at that crazy woman's command, would only roll his eyes and bury his face in his palms. Yet despite his country bumpkin manners and a penchant for bad comedy, the boy seemed intelligent, and something in the way he looked at Anders – whom he called "the first proper mage they'd met since their Dad had died" – made the older man feel _unique_, for lack of a better word.

It was probably because of that feeling that Anders had told the boy more than he'd usually reveal to a stranger.

"So, you're an apostate on the run, a Grey Warden, a freedom fighter, a healer of the poor, _and _an abomination?" Julian listed, his eyes widening with admiration. "Man, that's _awesome_!"

At first, it had seemed only natural that Julian sought the company of another mage. He promptly proclaimed Anders his mentor, and whenever he had a moment to spare from chasing the funds for that idiotic "this-time-next-year-we'll-be-swimming-in-gold" expedition of his, he'd come to the clinic and pester the older mage with questions on how to tweak the precision of lightning bolts or how to use the Cone of Cold spell without freezing your own toes. Anders never saw himself as a good teacher, Maker forbid – that calling required patience, not a virtue he was gifted with. But Julian absorbed his every line as if it were the Chant of Light, and, without noticing, Anders found himself anticipating the boy's visits, eager to share much more than just advice on spell-casting. Julian _listened_ to him, mouth agape, eyes wide, sometimes even taking notes. For Anders, it was only human to start feeling like he was the smartest, funniest, most amazing man in all Thedas.

_Vanity is a sin._

It was unbelievable how the spirit would still dutifully complain about something that happened years ago.

"No one asked for your opinion."

_You were vain. I am only calling things by their real name. I do not lie. I am Justice._

Anders sighed, his fingers tracing a pattern in the ashes on the floor.

"No, you're not."

Julian was now giving orders to a group of younger mages – Anders recognized some of their faces, but couldn't recall their names. There was that poor boy they kept rescuing from trouble every few months, only to find him in an even worse distress next time – Alain, wasn't it? But wait, why was he still here, didn't it turn out he was also a blood mage?

_Most of them are. Even the old elf. I can sense it. _

Anders wasn't sure whether he felt terrified, or furious, or sad, or all that and more.

"It shouldn't have come to this," he whispered.

_You said it yourself, once: people do all sorts of stupidities out of despair. But worry not. Now they have him to lead them._

Indeed, the Champion seemed too beautiful as he smiled and cheered, lifting the crowd's morale.

_Don't look._

A fun fact: before meeting Anders, the sheer notion of the mages' plight had never even crossed Julian's mind. Anders understood – the boy had no reason to ponder the matter. He was born free and grew up far from the Circle's clutches, and even though he learned the mage towers were grim, ill-fated places and that templars had best be avoided, he had never truly realized how it felt to be a mage in Thedas. So Anders saw it as his duty to educate the boy. He told him what it meant to be judged, persecuted, oppressed, feared, and deprived of all life's joys, great and small, that people who called themselves normal took for granted. He explained how it felt like to be hated – and to hate. He insisted that it had to stop, that the world needed to change, and Julian nodded his head, soaking up every word. Anders could see the boy didn't really get it – it was too abstract, too complicated and foreign for a lad who'd spent most of his life in some Maker-forsaken dump in the Fereldan countryside. And yet young Hawke was a talented pupil. In the blink of an eye, he learned Anders' words by heart and obediently began chanting the same mantras whenever they'd find themselves in a situation that required a choice between the magic-users and the forces of the Order. His brother despaired, Aveline frowned, and the Tevinter elf shook with rage and glowed blue light, but the boy didn't seem to care. At the end of each libertarian tirade, Julian would seek out Anders' eyes, trembling with expectation like a dog that wagged its tail, waiting for its master to pat it on the head and say it's been a good boy. Obviously, he failed to understand that Anders was a cat person.

It was at that time that Anders started suspecting that the boy's fascination might have been more than just looking up to a fellow mage.

It happened a few days after Karl had died. That had been an awful time – no matter how hard Anders tried to make some sense of the event, he only felt miserable and helpless, and _angry _as he'd never been before in his life, not even when they'd taken away his cat. It was probably because of that bitterness that he crossed the line when the boy started asking all sorts of tiresome questions about Karl and Tranquility, so full of that relentless, childlike curiosity of his.

As precisely as he could without being downright vulgar, with a smile that he thought both seductive and supportive, Anders confirmed his interest in men, and then carefully watched the boy's reaction.

For a second, he feared that he was wrong in his assumptions, and that Julian's feelings for him were indeed nothing but harmless admiration. The boy blushed so hard that even his ears turned bright red. He frowned, swallowed loudly, and started stuttering so badly that he couldn't pronounce a single word. Anders thought that Julian would push him away, call him a dirty old man or even hit him, as apparently it was too much to expect that a crude little farmer would be open-minded enough for love between men. When the boy rushed out of the clinic without a word of goodbye, most likely never to come back, he'd felt relieved, but also somewhat disappointed. Only the spirit within him rejoiced.

_I was right._

It was such a self-righteous prick, this spirit. It enjoyed the sound of its own voice more than Orsino and Meredith together.

"You weren't. He did return the next day."

_I was right to wish him gone_, the spirit patiently clarified_._ Sometimes, Anders had the impression that the bastard was talking to him as if he were a feeble-minded child. _He did come back, and see how much good it brought us. See where we are now._

Anders frowned.

"Just shut up, will you."

The next time he saw Julian, the boy had an even more resolute look on his face, as if wooing the older mage had become an important new task. Perhaps Anders himself was to blame, in a way. Perhaps all that talk about ideals and principles made him a bit too absorbed in his role of a teacher. The words that he used – "people should fall in love with a whole person, not just a body" – turned something as simple as a flirt into a statement, a _value_. And the boy was quick to adopt all Anders' values. He started showering the man with the most unsuitable gifts (a Tevinter Chantry amulet, sweet Maker), awkward compliments, and hilarious flirt lines that only someone with an utter lack of experience could come up with – Varric laughed out loud, Isabela cringed, and the angry little brother screeched as if he wanted to die of embarrassment. Whenever the boy would come to his clinic, the patients would grow quiet, as if they wanted to catch every word of that accidental slapstick comedy. Anders had never experienced it before, to be courted so humorously and persistently, as if he wasn't a grown man, but a maiden from the ballads. Next he expected flowers, or Orlesian chocolates, or poetry books. Or a dragon's head on a silver plate.

It was amusing and annoying, sweet and idiotic. It was a real nuisance and something to look forward to every morning in those grim days. It was wonderful.

_You freak. He was just a child._

There was nothing the spirit enjoyed more than preventing Anders from wallowing in his memories.

"Oh, shove it!" Anders hissed and pressed his fists against his temples, as if he wanted to squeeze the bastard within. "It's not as if I ripped him from his mother's breast. Besides, it was all his idea. I never led him on or anything."

_You didn't? _There it was, the faintest trace of mockery in that dignified, otherworldly voice. _I remember your exact words, if you don't. 'Ludicrous', wasn't that what you called him? 'A stupid little puppy caught between the cat's paws'?_

"I…" Anders wanted to say something, _anything _to silence the creature and finally have his moment of peace, but the words just wouldn't come. "I'm too tired to argue."

He _had _told him, though. He _did_. He warned the boy that it wouldn't end well, that it was impossible for a man as troubled as Anders to have a normal relationship, especially not with a young man who had a bright future ahead of him.

_How brilliant. _

The spirit sounded both cynical and condemning. Anders was never sure whether it had taken to some strange, dry sense of humor, or it was dead serious in its accusations.

_Telling a lovesick brat that his object of worship was doomed was like trying to put out a fire with oil. It only made him desire you more. You did it on purpose._

"I most certainly did not!"

He raised his voice again, and those apprentices gave him another scornful look.

_Admit it. You enjoyed the attention._

"The more I think about it, the surer I am that I should have remained in that Chantry and blown us both up. A simple boom, and end of story."

The spirit was silent for a few moments. Anders could almost swear that this was its way of laughing.

"Shut up."

_I wasn't saying anything._

It had lasted for about a year, that silly period of comical courtship and adolescent drama – a year during which Anders felt like the center of the universe. And then the Deep Roads came, and Julian got rich, and the other Hawke brother became a templar, and nothing was the same afterwards.

Julian changed.

He moved into a Hightown estate that had belonged to his mother's family, the Amells, who had been a noble house in Kirkwall at one time. He became quite taken with the idea of nobility – he hung the family crest on every other wall and filled the mansion with silk carpets, antique furniture and rare objects from all four corners of the world. He treated that Bodahn fellow and his dimwit son with respect, but was always happy to underline that he had a pair of dwarven butlers who took care of his affairs. He lost weight, grew out his hair, and started wearing suits of velvet and brocade that must have cost the lifetime earnings of a Fereldan mine worker. Not that he didn't look gorgeous in them. He bought half of the Black Emporium – all those Tomes of the Mortal Vessel and Tomes of Technique and Tomes of Whatnot – and began to use sesquipedalian words in his everyday speech, often pronouncing them wrong, but quickly grasping their true meaning. He'd always been a smart boy.

Julian changed in the eyes of the world as well. All of a sudden, the name Hawke was on everyone's lips – everyone wanted his attention, be it the nobles, the city politicians, the swindlers, the bankers, the Chantry and the mages, even the bloody Qunari. When he walked down the street, the urchins would run in front of him and shout "It's Hawke! Hawke's coming!" as if he were an idol of the masses. The ladies would sigh and step over each other to get a closer look, and the wrongdoers would hide, as Julian's sense of justice had already become famous. Everyone seemed to like him. Even though rumors about him being an apostate grew with each passing day, no one ever tried to tip him off to the Order, not even some of the templars themselves. It's amazing how mankind always had a soft spot for handsome young blonds with hope in their eyes and big words on their lips.

_You are upset that you never got to be that blond._

Anders blinked.

If it weren't for their audience, he'd probably jump up and slam his head into the wall, even though the spirit wouldn't feel it.

"You know, sometimes I am amazed by these theories of yours. For someone who spent an eternity in the Fade and claims not to understand the nature of human feelings, you sure do well with your speculations."

Another pause that could have been interpreted as laughter.

_I just spent too much time inside your mind_, the creature concluded slyly.

However, even though the spirit was wrong about the reason – and it _was _wrong – in those times after the Deep Roads, Anders had felt upset.

It wasn't that the boy had changed his mind about the mages' plight – on the contrary, as months passed, he'd even started to treat the issue more seriously. He publicly defied the templars (Anders had wondered whether it had something to do with trying to prove a point to his renegade brother), and proudly insisted on the need to abolish the Circle, even when doing so was not the most tactful way to handle a conversation. He also rebuffed the advances of many interested suitors, and often joked that his heart belonged to no one but Anders. To boot, whenever there was an important quest that they needed to resolve, Anders was always the first companion that Julian called on for aid. Yet there were no more ill-timed visits to the clinic, clumsy declarations of love, or hours wasted on abstract debates about the nature of magic, when Anders talked and the boy listened. Julian was simply too _busy_ for that.

Three years went by.

Anders had no reason to complain. He had his life – his clinic, his patients, and his network of the Mage Underground. It wasn't as if he wanted a relationship. But still, he found himself missing the boy – not this rising star of a young man, but the fresh-off-the-boat ham-fisted farmer who came to him and fell in love.

_Children grow up. It is a fact you cannot change._

Anders buried his face in his palms.

"Spare me, please. I think I've had enough of your wisdom for tonight."

_So this is how you thank me for what I did for you? _

The spirit often talked in riddles. Even though after all these years Anders had become quite skilled at deciphering its metaphors, at the moment the bastard was just being too obscure.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

The spirit took its sweet time before it gave an answer. On the other end of the hall, Julian was talking to the Tevinter elf, shaking hands and exchanging hollow compliments.

_I wonder what you would do without me. Just when that pirate woman's cleavage became too deep, when the Dalish girl came to rely too much on his guidance, and when the elven warrior started inviting him to nightly drinking sessions too often, I went on a rampage, and you had Julian's undivided attention again._

Anders felt a cold sweat breaking out on the skin of his back.

"No. That's not how it happened."

_Really? _The spirit paused, as if it wanted to give the man enough time to change his mind. _Then you forgot about that girl? The girl you almost killed?_

"It wasn't…" Anders realized that he could barely speak, and not for the first time that night, he wondered how it would have felt like to be blown to bits by a magical bomb, to feel every cell of his body dissipate into nothingness. "It wasn't like that. You fucker. Liar. Mindless beast from the Fade."

_I do not lie._

Anders had to clear his throat before continuing, for fear his voice would sound as if he were on the brink of tears.

"You know what happened," he said cautiously, as if he wanted to reassure himself. "I lost control because of Ser Alric and his Tranquil Solution. Besides, why would youdo such a thing? You never liked Julian. You opposed my involvement with him."

_You're so funny, human. _

The spirit's smooth voice suddenly sounded somewhat sad, and Anders wondered if there really was something he failed to understand.

_All these years, you thought it's always me controlling you. You've never even considered the opposite._

It took him a moment to process the spirit's words.

"I refuse to believe," Anders whispered. An empty sentence, but he didn't know what else to say.

_Then don't_, the spirit concluded, and remained silent for the next few minutes.

That incident had changed the course of their lives, though. The Tevinter elf started avoiding him, and Isabela stopped with her inappropriate jokes about threesomes with two participants, while Julian became so concerned and intensely focused on Anders' well-being that he started behaving like something between a mother hen and an overzealous watchdog. He was camping at the clinic again, sticking out like a sore thumb with his pretty clothes in Darktown and hovering over Anders' every word and gesture. It made the man think of the old days – except that now, Julian didn't flirt. The boy seemed overly worried, or confused, perhaps.

It was Anders who had to make the first move.

All it took was once sentence – the boy said that he'd never allow the templars to take Anders away – and the man threw out his silliest, mushiest, most passionate lines that he'd picked up from the worst kind of penny romances, but had never dared to use on anyone because they sounded overly sentimental. Julian gulped them down as eagerly as he'd absorbed all Anders' words once and rushed to confess, his eyes gleaming as if filled with tears, that never before had he had such feelings for anyone. As if Anders didn't know that. When he kissed the boy, he could taste mint on his breath and smell the soap in his long hair, and it felt so fresh, so young and clean that it made his head spin. Julian hugged him and wouldn't let him go, clumsy as if it were the first time he'd held someone in his arms, his fingers fumbling at the feathers on Anders' coat.

"I thought you wouldn't have me," he said, his voice shaky and suddenly too childish. "I thought I'd never be good enough for you. That you saw me as nothing but a nosy brat, no matter what I did or how much I worked on myself."

Until this day, Anders wasn't sure why he'd thrown himself on the boy. At the time, he believed that he needed an anchor for his own fleeing sanity, someone who'd see him as the man he used to be, not as the abomination he was turning into. Now, however, the spirit's cheerful guesswork seemed more possible than he was willing to admit. Perhaps it was right. Perhaps Anders just wanted to firmly tie the boy to himself the moment he felt Julian was slipping from his reach. Whatever the reason, it had felt unexpectedly good to have the boy melt in his arms, to look him in the eyes and see nothing but worship. It was addictive.

Later that night, after he took the boy's virginity on that luxurious, oversized bed – they'd made such a mess of the silk sheets and feather pillows, and Julian had blushed at the thought of what his dwarven butler would say – Anders had been amazed to discover how easy it was to whisper sweet nothings and promises of eternal love. Julian kissed him and cuddled in his arms, giggling aloud and rolling around in bed, and he looked so full of life and _happy_, as happy as only someone that youthful could be. Anders wondered whether Karl had ever seen _him _with the same eyes.

The thought that, once, he had used to laugh like that suddenly seemed so foreign.

No wonder that he'd lost his mind enough to ask the boy to let him move in.

What followed was a period of surreal bliss, not unlike a drug-induced dream. The images seemed so distant now – Lady Leandra awkwardly reaching out her hand as Anders brought all his belongings in just one small crate; Julian announcing to the entire world that he was In Love, and then proceeding to buy drinks for every soul in the Hanged Man; Varric threatening with elaborate descriptions of their lovemaking in his new book, Isabela raising her cup for them, and the Tevinter elf frowning as if he'd just been introduced to the Black Divine himself; Bodahn bringing them breakfast in bed every morning; Julian sitting by the fireplace and reading aloud from his Black Emporium books, as Anders corrected his pronunciation; Julian's hound chewing at Anders' boots and growling whenever they tried to kick him out of their bed; Julian combing his hair and throwing a towel at Anders, telling him to go shave; Julian squirming, trembling and moaning Anders' name as he came; Julian giggling as he happily prepared to try out a new bed trick that Anders had just taught him; Julian sleeping in the morning, hair disheveled on the pillows, and Anders wondering if happy endings were possible even for abominations, every once in a while.

In retrospect, those were probably the best days of his life. Better even than those first few months among the Wardens.

Too bad that they lasted for so short a time.

_You cannot blame me for that_, the spirit suddenly spoke again. Anders flinched – sometimes, it was so easy to forget that the creature was always there, listening to his thoughts.

_That one, you ruined yourself._

Anders inhaled deeply and let out a heavy sigh. His head had begun to hurt. By the end of the night, all he would feel was pain in his temples and the spirit's voice as loud as a thunderstorm.

"Finally we agree on something," he grumbled, rubbing his brow with his thumbs. "But tell me, oh wise spirit whose knowledge is beyond mortal measure, what else was I supposed to do?"

The creature didn't answer.

It had all ended the night when their hunt for the serial killer – an affair in which Julian had gotten involved so that "Varric could have cool and exciting stuff to write about", in spite of Anders' protests – had concluded with a particularly cruel twist. No one saw it coming, and when it happened, no one knew what to say. It was unbelievable how even the chattiest party members kept their mouths shut and their eyes on the floor. Anders could see that Varric would never write a word on what happened in that foundry.

The next few weeks turned into a waking nightmare.

Julian's pain was so _raw _that it made Anders' heart ache. The boy shut himself in his room, refused all visitors, and barely ate, no matter how much Bodahn would beg or that foolish elf girl would cry. On some days, he wouldn't even get out of bed, and when Anders tried to touch him, he didn't react. At night, the boy often wouldn't sleep, and more than once Anders woke up to find Julian staring at the ceiling, tears rolling down his cheeks. Anders felt furious and _helpless _beyond words. It was more frustrating than he could bear. The worst was that he didn't know what to do – in the Circle Tower, they never taught the skill of comforting. And yet, it _had _to stop.

"You must not do this," he'd told the boy one night, passing his fingers though sweaty blond locks. Julian had become unusually untidy in the previous weeks. "She's gone. Starving yourself to death won't bring her back."

At first, Julian hadn't responded, but just cradled himself in fetal position and breathed heavily, his head on Anders' lap. It had taken him a while to come back with words.

"I know that," he whispered, his voice uncommonly hoarse. "It's not that."

"What is it, then?" Anders asked softly, feeling the panic rise and trying to sound as calm as he could. "You know you can tell me anything, love."

Slowly, Julian lifted himself to a sitting position, and when he finally looked into Anders' eyes, the man knew he wasn't going to like the answer.

"It's just something Uncle Gamlen said. Made me wonder."

Anders wanted to embrace the boy, but the anxious look in Julian's eyes made him hesitate.

"Don't tell me you took the angry ramblings of a bitter old gambler to heart?"

"I usually don't listen to him, you know I don't, but this time…" Julian reached out and grabbed Anders' hand, and the man could see that he was _scared. _"He said templars should lock up all mages and throw away the key. He called magic a curse that ruined our family, and said that Mom was nothing but another victim. On top of that, he claimed I would have been happier if I'd been born normal, like Carver. _Normal_."

"But that's nonsense, love." Anders shook his head and sighed. "That's exactly the attitude we must fight against."

"I know, but…" Julian's voice broke. "But what if we're wrong?"

Anders felt his heart sinking. The real meaning behind the question was what if _he _were wrong, and he knew it.

"You taught me all I know about the world, Anders, and I'm really grateful that you opened my eyes" Julian continued. "But sometimes… Sometimes I wonder. Maybe things aren't that simple. Maybe magic _should _be controlled. You saw what that bastard did to Mom."

"He was a madman!" Anders felt he had to react immediately, but the words came out too harsh, and Julian flinched at the tone of his voice. "That's what made him do it, not magic!"

"Perhaps. But was Gascard DuPuis a madman too?" The speed with which Julian countered this argument meant that the boy had really mulled over the matter. "Or that man who wrote to the necromancer and admired his work – _research_, as he called it? Can every blood mage that goes ballistic in Kirkwall be excused by _insanity_? If so, we live in a city full of damn lunatics."

Anders took a deep breath. He realized that the boy's entire universe – not to mention the image Julian had of him, as well – depended on what he said next. One misstep, and he'd lose Julian forever. His hands were shaking.

"Listen to me, love," he said and tucked a stray lock behind Julian's ear. "What makes these poor sods turn to blood magic is the lack of freedom. People do all sorts of stupidities out of despair. They see no other options but turning to forbidden powers. It's not an excuse, but it is an explanation. And that's why we _must _fight for the mages' position."

Julian didn't seem convinced, but at least he appeared to listen.

"We must show them that there _are _other ways. That there are men like _you, _love."

"Like me?"

The moment he saw that familiar spark in the boy's eyes, Anders knew he was on the right track.

"Yes. Look at yourself, Julian. You've accomplished so much. You're one of the most upstanding citizens of Kirkwall, and you're an _apostate. _A man who's always had his freedom. The mages need you. They need you as an example. As a _leader _in this battle."

"Battle?" Julian frowned, but his voice reflected a strange enthusiasm. "Are you talking about a revolution? Maker's breath, I never realized you were planning anything that big."

Neither did I, Anders had thought, but the idea seemed to have had too strong an influence on Julian to let it go.

"We can do this together, love. We can set things right and make this world a better place. Just don't lose your faith, ever. Kirkwall needs you as a leader."

Julian stared at the floor for a long while before answering. He was gripping Anders' hand so strongly that his nails almost broke the man's skin, but Anders didn't react. The moment the boy lifted his head and met his eyes again, Anders knew that he had won.

"So be it, then," Julian whispered. "If you think that's the right thing to do, Anders. If it will make you happy. I'll become the best, the noblest and the most powerful leader the mages have ever had. You'll see. And I shall fight, I shall fight with all my strength, and I'll change the world for you. For _us_."

Julian kissed him, smiling for the first time in weeks.

"I promise, Anders, I shall make you proud."

_So why aren't you proud?_

It was a good question.

The Champion of Kirkwall, the noblest and the most powerful leader the mages had ever had, was hugging Isabela. The embrace lasted for a moment longer than necessary, and even though Anders knew their friendship was platonic, he felt a sickening pang of jealousy. It almost made him want to throw a fireball in that direction.

_Tell me, human. He did all you wanted him to, and more. Why aren't you proud?_

"Fuck you," Anders hissed and threw a pebble that loudly bounced against the floor. "My reasons are none of your business."

_Don't look, then. You shouldn't be looking at him._

In the months that followed their dramatic bedroom conversation, Julian had completely dedicated himself to his new mission.

His newly acquired position as the Champion of Kirkwall had helped a lot. He had saved the city in a most epic manner – the minstrels adored retelling the story of his duel with the Arishok in detail, elegantly omitting the part when he ran around the pillars to replenish his magic, or instructed his poor slobbering hound to keep the Qunari busy so that he could properly aim with his spells. With a multitude of traveling storytellers at his back and Varric's tireless propaganda, Julian quickly became a living legend, and every soul in the City of Chains spoke about Hawke with awe. Not only that, but it appeared that no major event could happen without Julian interfering to state his opinion. And people listened to what he had to say. Truth be told, they'd always liked him, ever since he'd returned from the Deep Roads, but now they _worshipped _him. Anders thought that such reverence was supposed to be reserved for dead heroes alone – like, for instance, his poor fellow Warden who'd sacrificed his life to end the Blight – but much to the dismay of the Knight-Commander, the people of Kirkwall preferred their Champion alive and well, and dangerously influential.

To complete his transformation into the Champion, Julian had cut his hair, had his face tattooed (and complained that it hurt), bulked up, and replaced his pretty noble clothes with the barbarian outfits. He was very pleased with his new look. To Anders, it was nothing but a masquerade, a theater trick – you could not change who you were by changing the color of your coat – but it made Julian happy, so he didn't hold it against the boy.

He did resent other things Julian started doing, however.

For the first time, Julian had insisted that Anders should stay at home.

He gave the man a key to a secret tunnel that connected the Hawke estate and his Darktown clinic (why, for Andraste's sake, the mansion had such a passage was beyond Anders' comprehension), and insisted that Anders never use the streets. He claimed that it was for Anders' own good, that the templars had become too ruthless and vigilant, but Anders could see that with Meredith on the loose, Julian was afraid of yet another spirit-related incident that would bring them more harm than good, like the one with Ser Alric.

_Um, I didn't do it._

Anders suddenly burst into laughter.

"Maker's breath, you're developing an _actual_ sense of humor. I don't know if I should applaud or despair."

His laugh must have been too loud, or perhaps frightening, as the apprentices started to look around and shift uncomfortably, as if they wanted to be anywhere but near the man.

"This is too funny," Anders said, trying to calm down a bit. "Sometimes, you do sound like Justice, but there are moments when I can't recognize you at all. Now, where was I?"

_The years you spent at home._

"Ah yes. The years I spent like the Champion's kept wife."

Julian was a stubborn boy, a true Fereldan. His entire life had begun revolving around the idea of revolution – the Cause, as he called it, with an audible capital C. He talked about it with contagious passion, presenting it as a positive development of society, and even those who weren't so convinced about the necessity of such a plan ended up nodding their heads. He started conspiring with Orsino, rescued apostates and sent them out of Kirkwall, sabotaged the templars whenever he could, and hunted down blood mages before they did too much damage to pass unnoticed. He took over Anders' connections with the Mage Underground and created a network of dedicated followers that efficiently carried out his orders. He read books about politics and governance – thick, boring tomes that could kill a man if hit on the head – and didn't ask for Anders' help with the more difficult words. At night, when he'd come home exhausted from whatever amazing task he had managed to accomplish during the day, he'd just stumble off to bed and fall asleep, so pleased with himself, not even waiting for Anders to hear what he had done and tell him he'd been a good boy.

He was brilliant, as he always was. It was unbearable.

"We're doing great, Anders," he'd say to the man whenever their paths would cross at the Hawke estate and Anders confronted him for feeling left out. "Meredith's downright bonkers, but I'm keeping things under control. Give me enough time, and even the Grand Cleric will come to our side. There's no need to be that bitter and paranoid. You should be _happy._"

A part of Anders had understood that Julian was right. A part of him had still wanted to embrace the boy and hold him firm, to inhale the scent of soap and tangle his fingers into the tousled blond locks. However, every time Julian offered his reassuring smile and talked to him with that tone of voice, as if Anders were _unreasonable_, Anders wanted to hit the boy in the face and break that pretty nose of his. Let's see if he could run around and raise revolutions with a few missing teeth.

Another problem that had troubled Anders was how to fill his days.

Spending time at his clinic was always a possibility, but with each passing day, the number of patients willing to let him lay his hands on them grew fewer. It was then that those dreadful rumors about him started spreading. Anders realized it was his own fault – it became so difficult for him to control his temper, and he'd shout at almost every soul who entered the clinic, pushing his manifesto in their faces – but nevertheless, he felt let down. For all those years, he treated their illnesses free of charge, cured their infections, held their hands as they were dying, and delivered children that sometimes they'd even name after him. Yet at the first sign of trouble, the ungrateful bastards ran away.

_So typically human._

He had stayed at home, more often than not. At best, he'd reread the novels he'd already learnt by heart or petted the boy's aging hound who'd never fully recovered from the encounter with the Arishok. At worst, he'd listen to Bodahn Feddic speaking of how Master Hawke was such an incredible man, almost as incredible as the late Hero of Ferelden, or count how many times that poor dimwit could say 'enchantment' during the course of one hour. Time passed slowly, as slow as if it were a trick of magic, and each day resembled the next. Anders felt so _lonely_ that he could scream.

_I kept you company._

"And you did a splendid job with that. I remember, those days we were arguing so intensely that we almost made that unfortunate elf girl lose her wits."

The spirit needed a moment to think before answering.

_It was always my duty to point out your mistakes. I am Justice._

"How many times do I have to repeat?" Anders sighed and leaned his head against the wall. "You're not."

On some nights, he went to the Hanged Man. Julian was seldom there – the Champion of Kirkwall had more important things to do – but other members of their party would often gather at the inn. They drank, played cards, and laughed at their in-jokes, telling anecdotes from adventures Anders had not participated in. (That's how he found out that Julian had recently slain a high dragon. The boy hadn't even told him about it, let alone brought him the creature's head.) He found their company irritating and unpleasant, and apparently the feeling was mutual.

"You're becoming impossible to talk to, Anders," Isabela told him once. "Yes, the mages are oppressed, the templars run amok, life's unfair and all that shit. But Hawke's doing his best to change that, and he'll make it, he always does. If it were me, I'd appreciate that someone's going to these lengths for my sake. So tell this Justice boy of yours to take it easy, and next time Hawke comes home late, don't yell at him, but screw his brains out. It will do you both some good."

"He's not doing it for me," Anders was quick to reply. "He's doing it for the Cause."

"I don't get you, I just don't." Isabela tilted her head and looked at him with such sorrow in her eyes that it _hurt_. "And once I thought you were charming."

Even after many years, thinking about her expression when she said that made Anders sad.

"She's right, you know," Anders told the spirit with an absent-minded smile. It wasn't often that he addressed the creature first. "I _was_ charming, once upon a time. And funny. It was before you. I was this selfish, shallow, happy-go-lucky guy who used to tell jokes about Andraste's boobs. I had the looks to kill – I wore earrings and silk scarves, and neat long hair in a ponytail, and everybody thought I was handsome, if a bit goofy. I could talk my way out of every trouble, and I loved my freedom almost as much as I liked to party or flirt with girls. Or boys. And even though I was superficial, and unreliable, and even cowardly at times, people liked me."

The last words sounded so unreal that he felt the need to repeat them.

"People _liked _me."

Anders sighed as his headache grew heavier and tried not to think about the past.

Julian approached the Dalish witch. She was shaking as if she were about to burst into tears, and he tenderly took her by the hand. She'd always looked up to him with devotion in her eyes, and Anders suspected that she was in love with the boy. Julian treated her with affection – even though she was a blasted blood mage – but he remained happily oblivious of her feelings. Yet now, Anders couldn't help but notice how _pretty _they looked together, a willowy elven girl and a strong young human holding hands, as if they were the perfect couple to lead the world into a bright new future.

Anders closed his eyes.

_So we got to your grand plan._

"Funny how you call it 'my grand plan', even though you claim there's nothing _grand_ about it."

This seemed to confuse the spirit, as it needed a few moments before it came up with its next line.

_Why did you do it, human? _Switching the topic was the creature's favorite technique of getting out of banter it did not understand. _To make people like you again?_

"Oh, you can do better than that." Anders let out a quiet chuckle. "So far, you've been coming up with some pretty interesting theories, and what you've just said doesn't make much sense."

A pause. Perhaps the spirit was thinking what to say next, or perhaps it was merely laughing.

_We both know the reason._

"Do we, now?"

With his eyes closed, it seemed to Anders as if there was little else in the world but the spirit and the pain in his head.

"What if I told you that I really believed that it was the only option?" he said, his tone quiet and soft. "Julian wanted his revolution – _my _revolution – but got too entangled in politics and negotiations. He ended up in a stalemate. Someone had to do something about it, so I took the fall for him. I removed the chance for a compromise, because there could be no compromise. I gave him what he wanted, so that he could make my dream possible. The same dream that made me give in to you and let you inside my body – freedom for mages, spirit, if you remember."

_I remember, human. _The spirit's flat voice was colored by a very strange timbre, as if the creature was _nostalgic_, of all things. _I'm just not sure that you do. Especially since now, you're lying through your teeth._

Anders knew he should deny it and protest – those were the rules of the game between the spirit and him – but this conversation of theirs had dragged on for too long already. He simply felt numb, and old, and too _tired_ to play along.

"You win. I admit. I lie."

He got the spirit there. The bastard fell silent.

When Anders opened his eyes, Julian was talking to Varric. The dwarf patted the boy on the shoulder and apparently told him something upsetting, as Julian frowned and bit his lip, abandoning his pose of the Champion of Kirkwall. Then, for a split second, he shot a glance in Anders' direction. Even though the boy quickly averted his eyes and resumed his exchange with the dwarf, Anders felt his heart beating faster. Perhaps they were talking about him.

_Shame on you. He trusted you. He loved you. You freak._

The way that the spirit emphasized the word 'love' made Anders shiver.

_Remember how happy he was when you said you found a way to separate me and you?_

Anders could recall Julian's wide smile and the joy in his eyes when he told him about the plan. The boy had hugged him and said he'd do anything to help, and for a moment, Julian hadn't looked look like the Champion of Kirkwall, but like the clumsy, impressionable farm boy from Lothering. Anders had felt strangely guilty for lying to him.

"I had to tell him something. The others, they had him hunt down slavers, or investigate haunted houses, or bargain for pirate ships, or expel demons from ancient mirrors. What was I supposed to do, to say I wanted him to crawl down the caves and dig through shit just for the fun of it?"

The spirit did not seem to catch Anders' bitter humor.

_Even after he saw through your lies, he trusted you, _it stubbornly continued its litany. _He distracted the Grand Cleric for you. He loved you. You low-life scum. _

"Shame on me," Anders whispered, remembering how Julian's hair used to feel under his fingers. "Shame on me, indeed."

The creature carried on, its voice louder and its enthusiasm growing, as if it were speaking to an entire audience and not to one man inside his head.

_Once again, you used me_._ You u-s-e-d me! And why wouldn't you? I'm the best excuse for all your faults. I'm the best tool to draw his attention. You're so lucky to have me. And you're a sly one, you've always been. It was such a clever plan you made. So crafty, allowing you to get rid of many troubles in only one move. Don't think you can hide it from me. You freak._

The spirit paused, waiting for Anders to interrupt its speech, but the man wasn't willing to cooperate.

_You couldn't allow some Fereldan clodhopper to outshine you and steal your show, of course. You couldn't let the world celebrate this cheerful young blond, who'd always had it easy, while you became a messed up old fool. This was supposed to be your fight. Your Cause. Your name to go down in history, you jealous creep. You green-eyed monster. _

"Please stop," Anders finally said, well aware that it wouldn't silence the creature.

_And it works the other way around too, doesn't it? No Cause may take your loverboy from you, you possessive fiend, no matter how important it were. No matter if he did it for you. A brilliant idea, your plan – how do you humans call it, a "win-win situation"? You blow up the Chantry and start a war. If he kills you for your crime, you die a martyr, and he lives on with your blood on his hands and your name in his heart. If he spares you, you're both condemned to a lifetime as fugitives, hiding and running for the rest of your days, and once more, he'll have no one else but you. Either way, you get to keep both the Cause and the boy for yourself. You abomination._

"You're enjoying this a bit too much," Anders muttered. "If I'm a freak, so are you."

_A great plan_, the spirit persisted, paying no heed to Anders. _A magnificent plan. Too bad it failed._

Anders sighed.

_What a miscalculation._

The creature obviously enjoyed to use that word. If only it weren't true.

Julian was in the course of saying goodbyes to Aveline. The woman gave him a warm hug and kissed him on the forehead, as a mother would – she'd always seemed all too happy to play such a role in the boy's life, and Anders hated her for that. She was the last companion that the Champion needed to speak to, before the battle.

Anders felt a heavy knot forming in his stomach. He knew what was coming next.

The apprentices suddenly jumped and moved to the other corner of the hall, as if they wanted to be as far away as possible when the Champion came to confront the Man Who Ruined It All. They acted like a flock of terrified hens, Anders thought – no dignity in them, no strength, just shallowness and malice. To think that he wanted to change the world for the likes of them.

Slowly, as if he wanted to postpone the moment for as long as he could, Julian Hawke started crossing the hall. Anders thought that it would be appropriate to stand for the encounter, but as he began lifting himself up, he felt a sharp pain in his knees. He chuckled – apparently he _was_ old enough for sore bones.

_You really think he still loves you, after you betrayed him like that?_

"Shove it."

Julian approached him, as careful as if he were drawing near a rabid animal, but still more determined than Anders liked. It meant the Champion had already decided what to do with him, and nothing could make that stubborn brat change his mind. He stood out of Anders' reach, and yet the man could still smell the familiar scent of mint and soap. It felt like a punishment.

"Anders," Julian said. The boy's gaze was fixed on the floor.

"You're worried about your brother?" Anders asked. A strange topic to start the conversation, but anything was better than this awkward silence.

"Not really. Carver's an ass, but he'll do the right thing in the end."

_Say it now. That pretty line you've been saving for the occasion. Maybe he'll fall for it._

Anders cleared his throat.

"Ten years, a hundred years from now someone like me will love someone like you, and there will be no templars to tear them apart."

Anders tried to make it sound as one of those statements that the boy used to swallow so gladly once, but the sentence rang fake, shallow.

Julian raised his eyes.

"And what about spirits, then? Will they tear them apart?"

Anders stared at the boy, trying to find a proper response, but his wit failed him. Julian's eyes were hard and narrow, his posture reflected authority, and his face was more angular, sharper than Anders remembered. Funny thing, he'd been looking at him the entire evening, but it seemed it had been many years since he actually _saw _the boy last time. This was not a pose, Anders realized, there was nothing boyish about this man, this _was _a leader, a true Champion. When did that happen?

_I told you not to look. Children grow up._

Anders felt a sudden urge to throw himself in Julian's arms and kiss the boy – the man – but somehow he knew that Julian wouldn't allow it.

"I apologize," the Champion suddenly said, although he didn't sound as if he were genuinely sorry. "I did not mean to seem bitter."

"That would be my role, right?" Anders promptly replied, and both men chuckled. It almost seemed as if the tension between them was not so dense, but the moment didn't last long.

"Why?" Julian asked quietly.

Anders struggled to interpret the expression on the boy's face. Julian was an open book to him, but he couldn't tell what the Champion was thinking. If the Champion was angry, or heartbroken, or simply sad and frightened, he did not show it. Real leaders never allowed emotions to cloud their judgment.

"People do all sorts of stupidities out of despair." Anders gave the only answer that didn't sound like a lie. The Champion slowly nodded his head, as if he were satisfied with the explanation.

_He's no fool, he knows your real reasons, _the spirit sneered. _He just doesn't care anymore. He gave up on you. Well done, you idiot._

"You know what happens now, Anders?"

The boy had always liked to say his lover's name aloud, and yet the way the Champion emphasized it now made it sound as if they were strangers.

"I don't." Anders shrugged his shoulders. "You'll have to explain."

_That's right. Make him say it. Make him hate you even more._

"If we survive tonight's battle, Aveline will place you under arrest." Anders wanted to think that Julian felt uncomfortable as he was telling him this, but the Champion's voice sounded confident and smooth. "I don't know how much time you'll spend in prison. Not too long, I hope. I shall contact some people in the mean time – that sister Nightingale, for example, she seemed like a reasonable person – and arrange everything for your extradition to Orlais."

_Extradition. _Julian really liked his complicated words.

"You will be tried there. Properly, before a real court of judges. Maybe even before the Divine. That would be good. For the publicity, I mean."

"You're thinking about _publicity_?" Anders raised his voice. "I don't stand a chance on trial! It will be a sham, and you know it! Those stuck-up old biddies will be all too happy to put a noose around my neck, or even to burn me at the stake, like they did to witches in the old days! How can you do that?"

"But you _are _guilty, Anders." Julian shook his head, and for a second he did look heartbroken. "And you _were _ready to die. It's just that there _must _be a trial. An official one – not just me stabbing a knife in your back, or something equally stupid. The whole world needs to see that this was an act of a lone madman, just like that Quentin fellow was. We must prove the Mage Underground movement does not endorse the slaughtering of civilians, and that we clean our own ranks of lunatics and abominations. The only way to turn the Cause into a legitimate political goal, while keeping the people's sympathies on our side, is to have that trial and make it as public as possible."

Anders could feel the spirit laughing inside his head.

"We will use the trial for other ends, of course." Even though Julian said 'we', Anders didn't feel as if the Champion included him as well. "There will be templars testifying against Meredith – good, honorable people whose word can be trusted. All the crimes committed against the mages here in Kirkwall will come to light. The Chantry will be forced to drastically change its standpoint or fall apart. Whatever the outcome, our hands will be clean, and our voice will be heard."

"That will never work," Anders said. "You won't accomplish anything. They'll just kill me off, push the entire affair under the carpet, and pretend that nothing happened, like they did for centuries."

"Oh no, they won't." Julian grinned, and something about that smile made Anders shiver. "The carpet part, I mean. They will have to kill you off, however. Tough luck. But here I am, sounding bitter again. And we don't want that."

In that instant, Anders felt so helpless he just wanted to fall down on his knees and weep, but he thought Julian might kick him if he did that.

"Don't think I'm ungrateful, Anders," the Champion said, his voice slightly softer. "You made me everything I am. In fact, if I was sure that I'm talking to you, and not that parasite inside your body, I'd tell you how much I loved you. Maybe I still do. But our days are over."

With a swift movement, Julian turned on his heel and walked away, the fur-lined cape of his Champion Armor dragging behind him. Anders wanted to jump on the man and stop him, to beg and apologize, to cover his face with kisses and promise he'd never do something so horrible again, as long as Julian would let him stay by his side. Even so, Anders didn't do it.

Then, after a few steps, Julian stopped.

"I _will_ change the world, Anders," he said without looking back, but loud enough that the entire hall could hear. "You should be proud."

The silence that fell after those words was deafening.

The faint sound of the templars' battle cries was audible in the distance. It seemed that their opponents were getting impatient. Maybe the showdown was finally about to begin, thank the Maker. The preparations took way too long, and Anders was losing both his patience and wits. A moment more, and he'd set the entire hall on fire, starting with the apprentices in the corner. Watch them burn, and laugh.

_So that is what the boy intends to do with you? Finally, a twist that I approve of._

"I was wondering when you would pop up to say something I don't want to hear."

_It's not that bad. I like trials. I am Justice._

"No, you're not."

_I am Justice._

"You're one stubborn bastard, that's what you are. When we merged, Justice ceased to exist. We became one being."

The spirit appeared to be in the mood for bickering.

_I am Justice._

"You're nothing but a voice in my head."

_I am Justice. _The creature did not sound as self-assured as before. _Who else could I be?_

"Don't you get it, you idiot?" Anders said, realizing it himself for the first time. "You're _me._"

This seemed to reach the creature, as it stopped speaking.

The silence inside his mind was odd, and for a moment, Anders thought the bastard was gone for good. Maybe he finally found the magical words to get rid of the spirit. He wondered how he'd failed to figure it out sooner. The entire situation was bloody _hilarious_, and he wanted to laugh until his lungs collapsed, but all he managed was a creepy chuckle.

At the gates, the Champion of Kirkwall took Varric, Aveline and the Tevinter elf with him and left the hall. Anders realized that perhaps this was the last time he would see his Julian, and his laughter turned into a shriek, as if he were in pain. No one rushed to his aid, however. No one even looked at him.

_It's a long way to Orlais._

Oh. It was still there.

The spirit sounded as if it was trying to offer a truce, though.

"You don't say."

_We can escape. We did it before._

"_I _did that. It was _before _you."

The spirit gave the matter some thought.

_We can die in tonight's battle. That's always a possibility, no?_

"Sure." Anders wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Maybe that's for the best."

He didn't really mean it and knew that the creature could feel it.

They did not speak for a time.

_So now what?_

"I don't know. And I don't care, to be honest. Neither should you. You're not even real, so why don't you shut up and get the fuck away from me."

_I can't do that. _The spirit – or whatever it was – sounded genuinely worried. _It wouldn't be fair if I did that. Don't you think so?_

"I'm too tired to argue." Anders fruitlessly tried to prevent further talk.

It took a while before the creature came up with the punchline.

_After all, I'm the only one you have left._


End file.
